


Repurposing

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dom/sub, F/M, Furiosa as caring top, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Muzzle Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re such a feral,” she says fondly, yawning, and feels him go still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repurposing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/gifts).



> This answers two similar prompts for kinky muzzle roleplay, one from Primarybufferpanel and [ one from the kink meme](https://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/1730.html?thread=1759426#cmt1759426)
> 
> "The Wasteland breaks each of them in its own special way, and now that Max is safe in the new Citadel, he sometimes wants Furiosa to put him back into a muzzle and treat him like the feral that part of him still is. (Can be sexual, prefer no humiliation, please please aftercare?)"  
> It's also a thank you to Primarybufferpanel for wonderful fic.
> 
> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

The first time it happens, they’re both sleepy, on their way to bed. Max growls a bit when Furiosa pulls him to his feet, not wanting to move and get undressed. “You’re such a feral,” she says fondly, yawning, and feels him go still. When she looks at his face, thinking she’s crossed a line, she’s brought up short by the need she finds there. Then she feels his cock, hard against her thigh. In bed, very much awake, he wants her on top of him: sitting on his face, riding him. When they settle to sleep, he presses close, curling into her. He has no nightmares.

Ten days later, she’s sorting through scrap. They’d cleaned out much of the Citadel – the cages, the Organic Mechanic’s lair – before Max’s return, but they’re still working through abandoned Imperators’ rooms, still finding tools and weapons among the junk. Furiosa is emptying out an old trunk when she finds the broken muzzle. It might be the last one left in the Citadel: the others have gone to the smelters, or been turned back into gardening implements. This one is dusty and out of shape, no lock, one strut bent, a few links of chain dangling uselessly. She’s moving it to the repurposing pile when she hears Max move. He’s staring at it, at her, eyes dark with heat. Very, very casually, she shifts, dropping the muzzle into the small heap of scrap she’s keeping for herself: bits that might go to another upgrade on her heavy new prosthetic arm. Max drops his gaze, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. 

A couple of days after that, late in the afternoon, she comes back to their room. She’s fidgety after a long council meeting. She also knows Max will expect that, and will probably be waiting for her, ready to spar or to fuck. He’s sitting at her work bench, guns cleaned, her spare shirt newly mended. The muzzle sits on the desk, strut curved back into shape, a new buckle attached to the leather strap. Furiosa takes one look, and bars the door behind her. 

She comes to stand beside him, picking up the muzzle. “You want this on you?” He nods, eyes down. She tilts up his head, flesh hand on his chin, meeting his eyes. There it is again, that look of need – a hunger she recognises, and something else, raw and wanting. She nods. “Take off your shirt,” she tells him, making sure she’s reading him right. He drags it off, clumsy and eager. She fits the muzzle over his head – not a bad fit, perhaps he’s already adjusted it. Before she does up the buckle, she taps his thigh twice, reminding him of the signal they use to concede when sparring. He nods again, eyes on her this time. She fastens it, steps back, takes up a defensive stance, ready for a fight. 

It was a good guess. With the muzzle on, he looks mazy, as twitchy and feral as the first time she saw him. “Come on,” she says, and he launches himself at her. It’s not quite their usual sparring: he’s wilder, messier, more anger and less control. She doesn’t think he would hurt her, but it’s a while since she’s seen him this far away inside his own head, and he’s still heavier and stronger than she is. She feels the spike of adrenalin, gets ready to fight faster and meaner.

When she gets him caught between her legs, he shudders instead of smiling. She squeezes her thighs, and he gulps, pressing his muzzled face into her crotch, breathing in deep. She kicks out of the hold, not waiting for him to tap, then wrestles him down again, gets him pinned, sitting on his bare chest with her knees holding his arms down.

He shudders again, bucks and pants, wild-eyed. She sets her metal hand on his throat and holds her position, waiting him out. His harsh breath slows and he stills under her, shivering when she shifts her weight. “There, now,” she tells him, voice low and steady. She lifts her flesh hand, strokes her fingers down the bars of the muzzle. “You ready to be good?” His eyes are clearing, focusing on her; he nods. She strokes the muzzle, frowning as she feels rough edges, rivets. Holding his gaze, she gets off him, backs away to sit on the bench, legs planted. He whimpers, a catch of breath. “Okay,” she says. “Come here.”

Max scrambles towards her, stops on his knees between her feet. She’s unfastened her trousers, flesh hand slipping down. He starts to lean in, but she grabs the back of the muzzle with her metal hand, taking a grip of his hair, holding him close but not too close as she begins to stroke.

It’s not the best position for his bad knee, even with the brace still on. Furiosa tugs him to one side, so he sprawls sitting against her leg, weight off his knee, cheek pressed to her inner thigh. That should be more comfortable, but if he notices he doesn’t show it, just breathes through his nose and leans into her as she strokes faster. Once she’s come, she brings out her hand, holds it close to his face as he sniffs and sighs, licking his lips. She pushes her wet fingers through the bars, lets him lick her clean, sucking her fingertips into his mouth. She scratches at his scalp, her metal hand gentle. 

“Lie back, now,” she tells him, pulling her hand away. He goes reluctantly, eyes on her face, not wanting to lose her touch. She nods when he’s lying flat, still watching her. “Pants down,” she says, “but don’t stroke yourself.” He shoves his leathers down, out of the way of his erection. She stands, ready to take her trousers off, but there’s not much space with him at her feet. She steps over him, towards the bed, where she can get her boots off and undress without tripping over him.

Lying there, Max can’t see her. She’s over him, which is what he wants, and then she’s gone. He can hear the rustle of clothing, but she’s out of sight. He tilts his head, the short length of chain rattling against the floor. Suddenly, it’s too much: he’s muzzled and exposed, his body open and vulnerable for inspection, as it was when he was captured. He wants to call to Furiosa, but he can’t get the words out, his throat working.

She’s there at once, kneeling beside him, flesh hand holding his. He grips her tightly, gasping as she makes soothing sounds, tells him again that she’s here, he’s safe. “Do you want that thing off your face?” she asks, when he’s calmed enough to hear. “Do you want to stop?” Still holding her hand, he shakes his head, suddenly aware of her warm bare thigh under his wrist, of her metal hand resting on his arm, cold and strong and grounding. 

“Tell me,” she says, and Max finds himself grinning. She’s so careful, so determined to be sure he’s safe, and there’s a hint of command in her voice that goes straight to his cock. He lets his hand relax, then squeezes hers again. “Want this,” he gets out. Releasing his hand, she touches two of her flesh fingers to his cheek, above the bars of the muzzle. Then she climbs onto him, straddling his chest. 

He knows she won’t sit on his face – the muzzle’s too rough, could they do something about that for next time? – but he can smell her, feel her wet cunt against him as she grinds down, and he groans. She smiles at the sound, strokes his hair for a moment. Then she reaches behind with her metal hand, rests it very carefully on his cock.

It sends a jolt right through him, a shudder of fear and arousal at the feeling of cold metal against heated, sensitive skin, her hand on his cock and the muzzle against his mouth. For one terrified moment, Max wonders if she’s going to stroke him with those dangerous metal fingers, and thinks he might come there and then. She laughs outright at his gulp, fond and a little smug.

She takes her hand away, and starts to wriggle down his body. She presses against him as she goes, making him feel her weight and warmth. When she gets to his hips, she kneels up, steadies his cock with her flesh hand before sliding onto him. She’s wet and hot and wonderful, but once he’s inside her she doesn’t move, just waits for a moment, watching him. He wonders if she’ll make him beg, thinks about fucking up into her. She shifts her hips, and they both gasp when she clenches her cunt muscles around him.

The shared sound is weirdly overwhelming. Muzzled, Max can feel his own violence. He knows he’s dangerous. He is feral. He wants to be held down, to be made to be safe. Most of all, he wants her to use him. Working a shift in the Citadel’s gardens, he’s seen how many of the tools have holes drilled for rivets, marks from when they were implements of punishment and restraint. He thinks of the clean, damp earth, and wants Furiosa to shape him into whatever she needs.

But he’s so used to reading her cues, to responding to her. He wants to chase that little gasp, coax it into moans and shivers. He groans when she starts to rock, moves his hands to her knees, but – “No,” she says, when he reaches for her clit, pushing his hand back to her thigh. He wants to feel her, to kiss and taste; she’s naked from the waist down but she won’t let him touch. He could sit up, push his hands under her shirt, hold her tightly as she fucks him, but – “No,” she says again, when he hasn’t even moved. She moves her hand to her clit, strokes herself as he watches.

As she moves towards her own orgasm, she leans forward, plants her metal hand on his chest, where he can feel his heart pounding and her slick drying on his skin. “Come for me,” she says, grinding down harder and faster, that imperious note clear in her voice. “Come for me, feral.” With a shocked gulp, he does.

It takes him a long moment to recover. She lies warm on top of him, face against his shoulder, as their heartbeats return to normal. Without really realising it, he’s wrapped his arms around her, wanting her closer. He grumbles when she sits up and climbs off him. She pulls him into a sitting position, kissing his ear before she unbuckles the muzzle and lays it on the floor. Going to the table for water, she brings back the jug with a cup and a washcloth, holding the cup to his lips as he swallows thirstily. She wipes his face, nuzzling at his hairline, and refills the cup for him. 

As he sips, still hazy with pleasure and relief, she washes him, soothing swipes of the cloth over his thighs and chest, before undoing his boots. He mumbles a protest at that, starts unbuckling his own leg brace, gets the rest of his clothes off. He watches as she unstraps her arm, strips off her shirt. She washes briskly, checks he’s finished with the cloth. When she goes to hang her prosthetic up, she picks up the muzzle, tucks it safely away in the chest where she keeps spare clothes. 

They fall into bed, sleepy but still buzzing, and cuddle close. He wants to touch as much of her as possible, skin against naked skin, arms around her and legs tangled. She presses lazy kisses along his temple and forehead, fingers in his hair. He’s almost asleep when he hears her murmur, “My feral.” Max hums, and snuggles closer.


End file.
